An Artist is my Hero
by Wordsorcereress
Summary: The creator of the "Number One Hero: All Might" comic franchise is struggling, almost dying, of stomach loss from a dreadful accident, and is slowly giving up on his series. Izuku is a huge fan of the All Might franchise and is an aspiring artist with a natural talent for bringing characters to life. Although his near-constantly angry boyfriend doesn't appreciate the talent ...
1. Chapter 1

_**The creator of the "Number One Hero: All Might" comic franchise is struggling, almost dying, of stomach loss from a dreadful accident, and is slowly giving up on his series ...**_

 _ **Izuku is a huge fan of the All Might franchise and is an aspiring artist with a natural talent for bringing characters to life. Although his near-constantly angry boyfriend doesn't appreciate the talent and is determined to snuff it out to teach him his place, Izuku can't help but pick up a pencil when he thinks of the joy and strength that All Might gave to him in his dark hours, inspired to do the same.**_

 _ **Through his art, Izuku's future may yet be bright.**_

* * *

 **Among other things, this fic has mentions of abusive relationship, no 'immediate' bad guy (cause this is real life, yo. Look at all this grey!) and a shameless lack of knowledge about the publishing and media distribution industry ... it's a fic okay, so don't take everything literally. (But seriously, if you have any knowledge of how 'real publishing' and 'real editing in a stinkin' office' actually works then drop a comment immediately before I write a chapter that's incorrect!)**

 **Also on Ao3 for those who prefer it there.**

* * *

A small pencil hit the desk as the image lay finished, pencil shavings, smudges of graphite and the little tufts of abused rubber littered the area around the paper like piles of discarded rubble and weapons from a battle. Calloused and small hands picked up the piece of paper with the owner's lips exhaling a satisfied sigh before a smile.

Glancing at the time, nearly nine in the evening, the young artist pulled out a small, low-tech camera and painstakingly carefully took several focused pictures of the art. He indulged himself for a moment, admiring the finished work through the lens long before he took the shots he needed.

Low tech camera, old-fashioned art style, traditional comic strips scattered through a central image of his most recent art creation, and yet he was overly familiar and pleased by his routine. It was comforting.

The action scene, the hero, reaching the crime scene in the aftermath, the chaos and the hurt he must face; the resolve to become stronger in his next few pages. The artist buzzed at the chance to develop this small-time character. This internet-comic-nobody, and yet, despite his low ranking fame and attention, these short stories made him smile, gave him strength and drew him towards his creative utensils like a moth to a flame.

He checked the time again, five past nine. He blinked, blinked again. And fought the urge to panic before rushing to his computer. This had to be finished before company arrived!

Trying to move at the human limit, he logged in and began to upload the best quality images to his little blog and breath of fresh air. It was such low quality compared to the pristine and utterly gorgeous illustrations of other artists, of the dramatic, messy and yet wholly captivating comic strips that he admired and dreamed of. But, despite the gap in skill and tech, he loved it so and couldn't hold back the urge to draw and share as his idols did.

Though it often got him into so much trouble.

Biting his lip and glancing at both internet clock and the clock on his wall multiple times a second, he willed the upload bar to move faster, his fingers flying across the keys of the slow, old netbook to add his habitual short description and small plot-step to the drawing.

His house was silent, but he still looked over his shoulder with increasing panic as he rapidly pressed the upload button, willing it to hurry up. The green inched, pixel by pixel, the estimated time climbing like the dread in his throat as the seconds ticked by. Oh why, oh why had he rushed this now?

He would get caught!

He trembled at the panic inducing thought. He'd get into trouble again, he'd have to wear the white fabrics again, make up bad excuses, he'd-

At last, the bar was full, and his blog successfully pinged his email with a small notification: **Your blog has been updated, congratulations on your latest post!**

The artist sighed, pulling his hands close to his chest as he shut off the computer. "Thank goodness," he murmured, the relief bringing a tear to his eyes. No white in store for him today, no white to cover the purples or reds because he wasn't going to get caught. He wasn't going to get into trouble again.

The light in the room dimming now only the bent and twisted lamp illuminated the room. Closet actually. Hidden, private space was crammed with desk and chair, a door that barely opened against the crowded inside, it was always too warm with the clothes washer beside the door and the dryer pressing up against the back of a chair. The desk was nothing but a utility surface with a tall chair comfortable enough to support those frantic hours of creativity that made the small, secret space worth it. The same creativity that was worth risking capture and punishment for.

The artist pulled himself to his feet and shuffled out of the little utility closet to the modest kitchen. By comparison, the apartment room was airy and spacious, and the artist stretched out into the newfound elbow room until he felt his shoulders pop.

Ten past nine …

"Kacchan's late," he mumbled aloud, nervously pulling at the sleeves of his oversized sweater as he reached the kitchen counters and fussed over how to prepare a light dinner. It was Tuesday, Kacchan always came back from work smelling of curry on Tuesdays so he would not be hungry for a large meal.

His stomach protested at the small spoonful's of rice he tipped into a pan, _not enough_ , it seemed to whine. The artist patted his stomach with a wince, he always got so caught up in his hobby and so nervous in the evenings that eating enough for himself during the day often slipped his stressed mind.

He didn't have time to consider cooking anything else, once their little appetiser had been prepared the door was unlocked and kicked open.

The artist jumped at the noise and drew in on himself, anxiously on his toes and tongue-tripping in his dry mouth as he stuttered "W-welcome home, Kacchan."

"Shut up you fucking nerd."

* * *

After they had eaten, Kacchan muttered a few comments about his day. The supervising officer had overlooked him again, and he was angry, likely his partner had talked too much, and judging by the way his hands twitched he had been doing paperwork for hours. All deduced from: "Glad that fucking week is over. You better be fucking grateful I gotta put up with this shitty job and the shitty AC, Deku. I need a beer."

'Deku', known as Midoriya Izuku in his IDs and the rare contact listing, recognised the order and at once jumped to his feet to fetch a beer can from the fridge.

Icy cold, just how it had always been ever since the past mistake years ago of serving his boyfriend a room temperature beer. Izuku's fingers nearly lost their grip as he remembered the negative reinforcement that came with that lesson. Beers were now permanently in the fridge, even when there was little room, even when the cupboards had the better access …

When presented, as demanded, it was snatched out of Izuku's hands with barely an acknowledgement.

Kacchan, AKA Bakugou Katsuki rookie police officer, slouched on the sofa in the other half of the kitchen that served as a living room and flicked through the television channels aggressively.

Izuku perched on the edge of the couch, avoiding physical contact and unable to relax with Bakugou in such a bad mood. He weakly tried to start a conversation, "Chiyo-san s-said today that she was seeing f-family this weekend."

"So?"

Izuku ducked his head when Bakugou's response was less than friendly, "I-I just thought i-it was nice …"

Intense red eyes glared through blond bangs at the sharp turn of the head, "If I cared about that stupid old woman I would have asked. _Just shut up Deku_."

Izuku inched away slightly and lowered his head, hands tightly fisted on his knees. "That's not n-nice Kacchan," he murmured. Chiyo Shuuzenji was a kind old woman, she was responsible for the sweets in their cupboards half the time, they had a lot to be thankful for because of her.

"Eh?"

Izuku gulped. Was that said out loud? A fearful glance towards the unstable blond gave him his answer. He was furious.

"Ka-"

His speech turned into a yelp of pain, he rubbed at his side, shuffling backwards on the carpet wary of the blond's next moves. Eyes breaking down the stance, the resolve in his eyes, the tension in his muscles-

Bakugou lowered his leg back to the sofa with a scoff of irritation, "Whatever. Go get the mail."

"Y-yes," squeaking voice, scrambling hands, and Izuku was out of the door with an unsteady breather.

His feet were cold … looking down he realised he had forgotten his slippers … he looked behind him at the closed door with an anxious rub at his sore ribs and his stinging hip. Lucky. He might have to wear the white under his clothes, but he wouldn't have any bad questions asked about Kacchan this time since the bandages would be under his outfit.

But he might need his shoes now, the communal stairs weren't always as clean as their apartment floor. He almost opened the door again, but Bakugou's yell at the television scared him a few steps backwards.

 _Really bad day …_ Mail it was.

He went down the communal stairs to the multiple mailboxes and unlocked their little box, box 3. It was like the others, but with many, many dents in it and squealing hinges. Izuku was glad it was his job to get the mail now, the box wasn't going to be destroyed anymore, and their landlord wouldn't have to replace it again. He closed the tiny door with difficulty and made his way back up the stairs to the second floor, looking at the envelopes all addressed to Bakugou.

"Kacchan will only want these ones today," Izuku put the bills under the one personal letter, it looked like it was from work. The notices would make him angrier, they'd wait on the kitchen table for tomorrow when he had finished relaxing on his day off and when he was calmer …

Hopefully, Izuku trembled, he wouldn't need to use sex as an outlet for his frustration this week … he hesitated outside his door and took a steeling breath, fighting back his weaknesses and trying to hide the 'Deku' that Bakugou always seemed to see no matter what he did.

Izuku slipped back into the apartment on light feet, making sure to brush his socks against the welcome mat thoroughly as he gave his slippers a rueful look. _Well, at least there wasn't any stones._

" _Oi, Deku_!"

Izuku dropped the letters when Bakugou shouted at him from the end of the hallway, standing at in the doorway that led to the utility closet … Oh no.

The blond held up a familiar sketchbook and Izuku's heart dropped. "What." Looking like he was about to explode, Bakugou approached with heavy steps as waved the book as if strangling a living thing while Izuku shrank against the locked front door.

"What. Is. This?"

* * *

 _The hero appeared at the site, the smoke, the fire the dust of the explosions chocking lungs as well as hope. The sparks in the air ignite despair as he throws himself into work, to save as many as possible, all the while seeing each suffering face and acknowledging that this was his fault. He put his happiness before his duty, before his people, and now he was paying the price for selfish indulgence. Seeing the betrayal in each suffering face, it was his fault, all his fault, where was he when he could have been preventing their pain? The hero knows, believes he must sacrifice his happiness to earn back the respect, to atone for those he was too late to save. Because a hero is all he is, and he serves the people, a hero who cannot serve is worthless._

* * *

 **Randomly updated, also on Ao3!**

 **Leave a comment if this stuck home or if you have questions.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**The creator of the "Number One Hero: All Might" comic franchise is struggling, almost dying, of stomach loss from a dreadful accident, and is slowly giving up on his series ...**_

 _ **Izuku is a huge fan of the All Might franchise and is an aspiring artist with a natural talent for bringing characters to life. Although his near-constantly angry boyfriend doesn't appreciate the talent and is determined to snuff it out to teach him his place, Izuku can't help but pick up a pencil when he thinks of the joy and strength that All Might gave to him in his dark hours, inspired to do the same.**_

 _ **Through his art, Izuku's future may yet be bright.**_

* * *

 **Also on Ao3 for those who prefer it there.**

* * *

"-and don't forget the copyright folders or I'll have you back here until you've pulled enough weight to carry this office!" the door slammed hard enough to rattle the dry walls, and heavy footsteps strode away with purpose. Even in an empty office, hours after all employees had left he still felt the need to strut like he was cock of the walk.

Heterochromia eyes closed as the man's steps disappeared into silence, and released a breath of relief and annoyance. Did his Father actually deem it necessary to pile more work upon him that on anyone else? It wasn't like their publishing firm needed a future CEO do pull work ranging from the applicant's calls of a receptionist to CEO meetings and arrangements, the constant push for greatness was exhausting …

Thoughts of doubt and thoughts of revenge bubbled under his skin, when he was in charge, after his old man retired, he could flush this horrible place away. He could bankrupt it, sell it, destroy its reputation with the truth of Todoroki Enji's home life and the abuse he always burdened his family with-

But then, he opened his eyes and saw the only good thing that had come out of his Father's company, and it may be the only redeeming feature of his future slavery, the All Might latest comic chapter. One hundred pages plus ten for advertisements and five for future releases, news about the author and the upcoming 'final' book signing that had had Enji practically radiating satisfying joy like physical heat.

Yes, final as in Last, End, _Concluding_.

Shouto silently hoped to talk the author out of it.

A conundrum. The young man ignored the pile of copywriting he had to leaf through for loopholes and irregularities and chose to reread his favourite part of the All Might fight. Yagi-san had outdone himself as usual, and Enji had been fuming at the reader's responses and the money the ever popular series continued to rake in. Enji hated his company's biggest financial success. He hated All Might.

Todoroki Shouto, son and youngest child of Enji Todoroki, found himself in as big a conundrum as his Father, though he loathed to acknowledge it. He was a big fan of the All Might franchise and a venomous hater of his Father for all the wrongs he had been dealt throughout his life in the name of preparing him for his company's future. His desires to dash his Father's dreams were utterly enthralling, he imagined it would be a sweet, sweet revenge … tainted only by the bitterness that he'd be destroying All Might's franchise along with it.

That fact alone had made him stray a harmful hand more than once. He'd signed documents correctly because of it, called the right people, put his soul into persuasion because of All Might … and his Father had benefitted.

While he was torn, he tried to content himself with watching his Father's unending frustration as none of his other prepped, and invested projects came close to knocking Yagi-san's inspiring series off of its earned number one spot week after week.

Shouto recalled the silent laughter in his mind as he watched his old man seethe and Huff in a fiery red rage until he was a shed away from spontaneously combusting. The sight had been a balm upon a deep burn. Enji's favourites or 'preferred' series weren't doing half as well. He had no instinct for what readers would find popular and invested his resources all wrong.

The boy closed the book, recalling the awful 'Endeavour' series that Enji had bent over backwards trying to promote, rebooting the series four times in different styles in an attempt to draw in the crowds as All Might had.

Shouto, however, had relatively good instincts compared to his Father and when Enji finally noticed that Shouto was slightly better than him at picking out a good sales hit he began his son's training. Endless paperwork, experiences at every level of the company, research, and charts, meetings, and interviews; all for the purpose of one day having his son uproot All Might's consecutive number one spot by offering something that Enji approved of at last.

 _Bullshit_ , Shouto thought, _as if we can predict how the readers will react to new manga_.

In recent times, when All Might had been his only light in the awful tunnel he was forced to walk through. He wondered if he'd ever become jaded enough to leave that inspiration in the dust as he intended to do with his Father? He was rethinking his plans to usurp his Father's company; why not make All Might even more popular? Make it the company's central piece?

The future CEO was well aware that All Might was overdue for more media avenues, anime, CDs and movies were all offered to lesser published works under Enji's company, why not this? Why not promote what Shouto was interested in. As the next generation, he was well aware of small domains like webcomics, self-funded comic strips and a variety of other Kickstarter-type projects that required only a small donation from loyal readers who were willing to pay.

He knew many talented obscure artists he'd like to hire, or at least commission if they weren't up to a dedicated serialisation. There were so many he'd love to take a chance on … the one thing he actually enjoyed about this forced labour was the amount of talent he had the power to raise up into the spotlight. The pride he felt when he'd found a golden egg was indescribable.

He shook his head with a sigh. All plans for times many days away from this, maybe even years!

Taking the first of the intimidating pile of paperwork, Shouto resolved to power through the work before he found himself asleep at his desk. Dreams could be left for his sleep, for now, presently he was much to overworked for a dream-like reality.

Right. _So Kōji Ōji wanted to seal the right to …_

* * *

Hours later, it was done. He left the work on his Father's desk, the CEO's desk, and walked tiredly through the office space to the elevator. Everyone had left hours ago, and no one was close enough to Shouto to knock on the door for coffee or a conversation.

Shouto didn't think he had a bad relationship with his co-workers, he was just kept so busy. He swallowed a swell of bad emotion when he felt an unrighteous blame rear its ugly head. It was no one's fault but his Father's, the office workers had no need to bother with him and no reason to because of Enji.

He took the elevator down, glad that it was one without the stale chimes of music most others decided was a trendy feature, and sighed when he saw that even the receptionists were gone.

How late was it?

He saw the midnight mark and sighed, typical.

Reaching across the desk he swiped up an abandoned umbrella, perhaps a gesture of kindness or perhaps plain old carelessness, and he stepped out of the building making sure to lock the door behind him and set the security for the night.

The recent rain made the night air remarkably crisp and refreshing, he breathed it in with appreciation after hours smelling nothing but ink, paper, and files stained with spots of cheap coffee.

As he walked he noticed that the clouds were showing signs of another shower, his hand held a briefcase and his acquired umbrella, and he quietly considered himself lucky for the latter. The walk to his mansion was one of the few pleasures he regularly enjoyed, whether late at night and quiet or busy in the day it was calming nonetheless.

Shouto cut through a local park after half an hour of walking, the physical movement and the darkness of the night soothed his eyes from the strain of reading complex documents, and yet it took almost tripping over a stranger's leg to spot him.

The future CEO wheeled on one foot to keep his balance and the umbrella fell from his grip, the other individual squeaking and stuttering an apology, pulling in on himself under the dual-coloured eyes.

Shouto was silent for an awkward amount of time as he considered why anyone would be out here this late, unnerved that his solitary walk had been randomly disrupted though he was not emotional about it.

After the young man's stuttering faded into silence Shouto asked softly "Are you alright?"

"Um, y-yeah- Sorry," the young man made no attempt to move, sitting with his back to a tree, knees pulled to his chest with what looked like a book held between his heart and his legs.

In the dim light of a half-moon and stars, Shouto could only make out the stranger's messy hair. He didn't appear drunk, intoxicated or injured, but when Shouto went to ask if he needed help, a shrill noise pierced the quiet night.

The stranger squeaked again, sounding startled and unusually scared. With shaking hands, the young man pulled out their ringing phone and, after briefly checking the number, answered. Shouto noted the bit lip and light trembling, and the man barely got out a syllable before what sounded like a loud and worried response began shouting out of the quiet speakers.

The man got to his feet, Shouto realising that he was taller than the stranger, and the light of the phone gave him a spooky profile of the stranger's chin and cheekbones.

He shifted uncomfortably as he observed the conversation before him. He should have walked away by now, the man said he was fine, and this was a private conversation, and yet he was still here. He was standing around while the stranger had a private phone call, listening to something he wasn't supposed to and still he made no move to correct his intrusiveness.

After cringing and softly answering 'yes' a few times before the person on the other end of the line abruptly hung up, the man pocketed his phone and whispered "Sorry for the interruption," and hurried off with a posture akin to fear in his step.

Shouto was tempted to call after him, but he was gone within seconds at his almost-run, and he was left alone like he normally was. He glanced down at the spot where the man had been sitting as if the old tree could tell him more.

Such a strange encounter … he took a step, bending to pick up the umbrella he'd dropped, and his foot pressed on some unknown object.

He pressed a hand to the spot and scooped it up; it was the man's book, a notebook to be specific, or perhaps a sketch book? Shouto brought out his phone and shone a light on it, wincing at the sudden glare in the dark night.

Save for his boot print the cover was slightly charred and ill-treated or well used, but there was no name so it didn't tell him much. When he opened it he discovered, to his surprise, several sketches of character designs, the parts of the pages without drawings were covered in notes and other doodles. The entire page was endearing and fascinating, he took a moment to read some of the notes about 'Mount Lady' and fought the urge to chuckle _. Damage cost versus helpfulness, combat abilities, size control, features including sex appeal?_

He glanced the design over, it was strongly skin to the manga designs he was always working with. She had all the characteristics of a stereotypical heroine.

That stranger, he thought, was very talented. He skimmed a few pages, seeing more of the same and absorbing it quickly through habit, trying to find a name or address to return this to, but stopped flicking halfway when he spotted something very familiar.

He blinked a few times. Was this … was this the cover page to 'City of Heros: Chapter 13', a small obscure webcomic series that Shouto had been following for months since he discovered it?

He looked closer. If memory served, it was identical. The non-profit webcomic had been pencil drawn too, posted through camera images and not scanners. He prided himself on recognising quality and his gut told him that this was the real thing, the eraser marks and smudges of age seemed to agree with his deduction.

With increasing interest, he turned the pages to the back of the sketchbook and saw, to his delight, the design of the most recent page he had viewed just an hour ago when he received his email notification. On the previous page were little notes, plot points, a small description and even plans for the future of this new chapter- this shocker of a page had been the beginning of a Hero's evolution to dedication, to shame him from the fun and fame and put him into a role of responsibility with a moral code.

And, Shouto thought as he silently spoilt himself the plans of this future webcomic story, this Hero was about to go through a hell of a transformation, his heart ached for the character's hopes and dreams. Just imagining it was causing an emotional reaction, suspense, and renewed investment.

That was the final clue, he had just met the author and artist behind the non-profit webcomic that he loved so much. Even the little bunny-eared avatar icon was dotted randomly around the pages was the same, smiling widely out at the audience as if wishing them nothing but smiles of their own.

Although … he reasoned rationally, it would be wise to keep an eye on the blog for a while to confirm this theory as a fact. If the storyline in this sketchbook were true for later updates, then he'd have to seek this artist out. No. He Had to.

Shouto's awe melted into frustration. He had just met a man who was oozing talent, and now he was gone. No name, no address, no contact details or even a face to be recognised by! Just a voice full of stutters and messy green hair …

Shouto's shoulders stumped, he pocketed his phone and carefully packed away the sketchbook. He'd find this stranger, he'd send an email on his blog should this man be the real deal, such talent should be invested in.

Once his eyes had adjusted again, he began the rest of his walk home. Eager to see his bedsheets and get some shuteye. Tomorrow, in the near future at least, may prove to be a fascinating waiting game.

* * *

 **Randomly updated, also on Ao3!**

* * *

 **Easter egg in this chapter! I've included an author of one of my loved series, which I also ship from the ducking dock and back. Kōji Ōji is the creator behind 'High Speed', also known as "Free! iwatobi swim club" - there may or may not be other easter eggs laying around in future chapters, keep your eyes out for familiar names or series! (Disclaimer, do not own!) I'm not counting it as a crossover because it's just an easter egg.**

 **Big thanks to everyone for all your comments, and a special thank you to Shadow_Woof_13 On Ao3 for the tip towards understanding a publishing office and the procedures! It was a big help and I learned a lot, almost exactly what I was looking for. (But I'll be taking a bit of creative licence with it too)**

* * *

 **Leave a comment if this struck home or if you have questions.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**The creator of the "Number One Hero: All Might" comic franchise is struggling, almost dying, of stomach loss from a dreadful accident, and is slowly giving up on his series ...**_

 _ **Izuku is a huge fan of the All Might franchise and is an aspiring artist with a natural talent for bringing characters to life. Although his near-constantly angry boyfriend doesn't appreciate the talent and is determined to snuff it out to teach him his place, Izuku can't help but pick up a pencil when he thinks of the joy and strength that All Might gave to him in his dark hours, inspired to do the same.**_

 _ **Through his art, Izuku's future may yet be bright.**_

* * *

 **Also on Ao3 for those who prefer it there.**

* * *

Izuku knocked on his own front door at four in the morning. He swallowed the usual shame that he faced every time he made his way back home. Whenever Bakugou got too mad, whenever _he_ overreacted and got scared Izuku would instinctively take flight and run. He used to run as a hobby, as a way to see new things, meet new people, spot moments of inspiration for his art sketches. But nowadays, when their relationship blew up, he found himself running further and further, coming home with his tail between his legs. Ashamed that he'd run in the first place.

Wasn't he an adult? Bakugou wasn't one of his comic villains or even an All Might anti-hero! This was his boyfriend, so why did he always run?

He hung his head, just another negative thought away from crying out of self-pity. He really _was_ a Deku … never brave, never strong, just stupid and small, overly dramatic and completely weak. He couldn't do _anything_ right.

The door opened cautiously, the golden light spilling out over Izuku's muddy shoes – he had run further than he'd thought while lost in pain and panic – and Izuku finally raised his eyes to the man standing in doorway number three.

Bakugou didn't look tired. He often took night shifts in an attempt to see more active duty than deskwork, but perhaps he'd already had a nap?

He didn't dare open his mouth to ask.

Bakugou looked him up and down with a scowl that rolled down his straight nose like an ooze, the silent scorn stung almost as acutely as his vocalisations. Izuku half expected him to slam the door in his face, his eyes already pouring over with shame for his pitiful state. The artist found himself unable to utter an apology or even as an excuse as he silently cried.

Finally, Bakugou gestured for Izuku to step inside when his eyes had travelled him up and down five times over.

Izuku timidly stepped by him, his fingers shook so badly he couldn't get his shoes off. Bakugou merely relocked their door and went to sit at the kitchen table, snapping his fingers in the direction of the other chair to express his desire for a somewhat civil chat.

Izuku joined him and kept his eyes on his hands.

The ticking of the kitchen clock was too loud.

"I left it," Izuku whispered at last. "I-I did what y-you said."

There was a grunt opposite him, "I can see that, nerd." He got up, Izuku tensed, and pulled something out of the microwave to dump on the table before him.

Izuku inhaled a tantalising scent of ramen and his eyes widened when he spotted the heated pot before him. Chicken flavour, their local takeaway that held the place as Bakugou's regular. Izuku's stomach groaned painfully at the scent, but he still looked at the blond leaning against the counter for an affirmative nod before he took it in hand.

It tasted like a feast. Izuku's stomach protested slightly at the food intake, it had been empty a long time, but he swallowed and chewed under his boyfriend's critical gaze until it was half empty. Izuku warmed his hands for a moment and whispered. "Th-thank you …"

The blond grunted again, "Stupid Deku, … well, you did one thing right, just don't be so fucking idealistic again. You're not an _Artist_ , you're a _shopkeeper_. Get it right."

Izuku ducked his head with a nod "Y-yes." _Kacchan's right, he pays the bills, he works hard to earn. I shouldn't be waving dreams in his face when he faces hard reality every day._ "I-I won't do it again."

Bakugou's hand firmly tilted Izuku's head up, his face silently saying ' _I've heard that before_ ', then with a soft jerk left and right he pecked Izuku's forehead hard enough that it felt like a brand, and went into the living room to unmute the TV.

Izuku relaxed now the grip on his face was gone, he rubbed at the spot of 'affection' with a troubled expression (kisses were rare). He couldn't believe he'd gotten off so lightly! Everything about Katsuki Bakugou was hard and hot and often furious. Though the kiss felt more like a burn the way he'd held his face still for it, like ownership, not affection- he shook his head; Kacchan was his boyfriend, he could kiss him whenever he liked.

He heard Bakugou sit down and grumble something foul about the game of some sport, he thought again how unbelievable it was that he'd off so nonchalantly!

He smiled in slight relief and almost inhaled the last of the ramen when he finally realised, yes, Bakugou wasn't going to throw another punishment his way, and, yes, it was safe to turn his attention away from him for a few minutes.

His next few bites were just shy of bliss. _So good_ , he thought. It wasn't really, but it tasted amazing in the moment. Strange how perception could alter something as simple as how a cheap pot of ramen tasted. Maybe this sensation could be utilised?

He half closed his eyes and saw a character morph before his vision; a man in love with food, so much so he took on a task to end world hunger. What a funny design he was taking in Izuku's head! There was a little chef hat, mechanised arms to replace the army of cook's he'd need, the occasional cut or burn on flesh to show his practice. Oh, and his ginormous tears and wails at the thought of food waste, of binning a single crumb. Would he sing? Would he whiz back and forth? He was turning into a little hero already, Izuku thought fondly. He'd watch the surprise and the joy, the _amazement_ of his clients as they tasted their first proper meal in ages and-

"Fucking loser! Concentrate for fuck's sake that was an easy fucking hit!" Bakugou swore.

It scared Izuku out of his daze.

He opened his mouth to ask if Bakugou was alright but froze.

He did it again. Seconds after promising not to!

He curled up in his kitchen chair, legs against his chest like a shield to the world, almost fetal position as he bit his lip. What was _wrong_ with him? Why did everything set him off like that, he shook his head to banish the happy looking chef-hero in his mind away, hopefully forever, shame pulling at his eyes until he was blinking back tears.

He was terrible. A terrible boyfriend.

Izuku bit his lip to stifle the hiccups as he longed for the sketch pad he'd snatched from Bakugou hours before, the flame of the lighter so close to his precious creations hurt more than a physical burn. He longed to write down this new idea, sketch the new character and add a few funny character traits to it. His fingers twitched helplessly. He'd left it behind …

 _"Get back here you Fucking nerd! And if you have that shitty notebook with you I'll kill you!"_

He left it, as asked. Izuku had promised not to start again, as asked … he clenched his fingers together and sighed. What a horrible boyfriend he was to Bakugou.

He wiped at his eyes and binned the empty ramen pot, shuffling briefly to the living room to stutter his intent to catch what sleep he could. He doubted he _would_ sleep, the churning guilt and sadness in his gut had overtaken the glowing warmth of the food, and he didn't tend to sleep well while emotional or stressed. The bags under his eyes a testament to his constant emotional exhaustion.

Bakugou raised his head "Whatever."

Izuku hesitated for a second, wondering if Bakugou desired any kind of goodnight ritual, sometimes it was a pat on the back, or a pinch or even a grope … but his attention was gone. It was focused on the letters in his hands, occasionally the sound of the TV. Inching, Izuku made it to the door by the time Bakugou next spoke.

"There's a fucking useless training program they're sending me on this weekend."

Izuku glanced backwards, hand over his heart to stop it pounding so loudly. He silently scolded himself for being so jumpy, he had done everything he had been asked to so there was no reason for him to be in trouble yet. Yet.

Bakugou couldn't read minds, he didn't have to know how much of a Deku he really was.

Izuku smiled slightly, unsure what response this required. "S-sounds important."

"Fucking bullshit is what it is," the blond growled. He sat up and threw it on the table "I'll be gone from Friday to Monday. Stay home and don't do anything shitty."

Izuku nodded, thinking of the weekend dates and if he'd need to cancel anything or cook something lasting for a few days, and eyes widened at the numbers. "A-actually, K-Kacchan," he stuttered, his knees knocking already. _Don't! You've just made up; he just forgave you for your stupid dreams. Stay quiet!_ "T-there's an All Might s-signing in town t-this weekend. I was hoping I c-could, you know … g-go?" he squeaked out at last with his eyes squeezed shut.

He sensed the looming presence before he opened his eyes to meet the angry gaze above him. His hand rose to Izuku's face so fast it made a whistle in the air, Izuku winced and flinched. He cringed again when that same hand pushed against his collarbone, so close to his throat and poised like he'd like to strangle him until his back hit the wall.

Izuku trembled.

Bakugou was growling, " _I'm_ going to the shitty training program this weekend. _You're_ staying home, and you're not going be a fucking nerd. Just like you promised." At the word 'Promise' Izuku was jerked into the wall again, his shoulders smarted and Bakugou's hand climbed higher …

Izuku lowered his head and nodded "Y-yes!" and, to his relief, the hand stopped inching.

The larger man let up on his pressing after a few more growled threats, and tugged on his arm, TV off and lights off soon too.

He pushed Izuku onto their bed, and the smaller inched backwards and away until his back hit the wall. Bakugou tugged his clothes off and then pulled at Izuku's, leaving only their underwear, he snapped at Izuku as he shook and shoved him onto his half of the bed, turning his back with more curses and nearly smacking his head onto his pillow.

He passed out two minutes later.

Two minutes after that, Izuku let himself breathe. He hesitantly tucked himself in and tried to soothe his frazzled nerves; _It's okay, it's okay, Kacchan isn't up for it tonight. Your home, you're safe, just breathe … oh God, don't wake him up, just breathe …_ Eventually, he could breathe past the lump in his throat, and his heart stopped restricting his chest.

He didn't relax completely, he pressed his back against the wall and covered his eyes, reciting softly the All Might speeches about bravery and strength to himself in the dim light of pre-dawn. He was back, there would be food at breakfast, a warm shower, and Chiyo-san was expecting him in a few hours, and he may even be allowed to sleep in her shop.

With a tiny smile, he forgot his surroundings and his fear and ended his mumbles; _"It's alright now, for I am here!" … Thank you, All Might._

* * *

"Why Midoriya! You look like you haven't slept a wink," Chiyo gasped when the young man greeted her.

She was shocked, he looked awful! Yesterday he had been fine, chipper and excitable and now he looked fragile and sick. His eyes were bloodshot and dull, he looked pale and exhausted, and he carried himself like he was expecting to run at any moment – the young man, still a child really, was too stressed for his age, and it showed. His eyes had bags under them, his hands shook, and she was almost positive he hadn't had any breakfast, he was getting too thin …

He tucked a hand behind his head and stifled a yawn, "O-oh, really? I was, um, I was just busy … yeah … K-Kacchan had a bad day at work, a-and, um, needed to r-relax." He winced at his own stuttering and the old woman anxiously pressed her hands together, wondering if she should comment her thoughts or just be a source of comfort for him.

Chiyo considered this young man her friend as much as her employee, she, a short little old woman and retired doctor who ran a small pharmacy, gave him a sour look as if he'd just offered her a lime. Against her better judgement, again, she took his word for it. She tutted, "That good for nothing boy … Dearie, go right back there and get some sleep," her eyes were moving all over him.

Midoriya snapped out of his sleep deprived daze at her orders, "I-I couldn't possibly, Chiyo-san, w-who will run the shop?" he protested. He looked ready to drop where he stood, and yet he kept pushing himself to try harder … it was so Izuku it almost brought a smile to her face.

The little woman tugged on his sleeve and waved her little walking stick, not listening to his objections; "I ran this shop before I met you Midoriya, I'm still young enough to use a till and stack some shelves," she grumbled, shuffling them forwards towards her office and treatment room.

Midoriya smiled shyly, his face always appeared preciously young and innocent with that expression. "You're not old Chiyo-san," he murmured.

The woman's round and wrinkled face lit up briefly, "Precisely!"

In the back room were two beds, unused for the most part, but occasionally Chiyo gave check-ups. Though she was retired and technically not part of the medical system anymore, she still helped people. Midoriya once told her that he thought she was a tiny hero, and he always blushed when he spotted the drawing he'd done of her – he had given it to her for Christmas and Chiyo was flattered. She knew him well enough to know that his artistic side was something he shared sparingly, with those he trusted, and she was pleased as punch with his interpretation of her.

Her stick was a large syringe, there was a smaller one to replace her variety of cute hair pins she was never seen without, he'd equipped her with a doctor's coat and given her a helmet with a vizier to replace her square glasses. It was shaped like a crash helmet for safety, and she had loved everything about it. Even the name: Recovery Girl. Because, no matter what society said, sixty was Not old.

She had put it up on the wall and smiled every time someone commented on it, beaming like it was the first day she was given it – after she had recovered her voice and hugged Midoriya until he could no longer feel his arms. He still blushed whenever he saw it, she acted like it was a national treasure and would have happily paraded it around all the time save the fact she knew it would embarrass him into hiding for the next ten years.

They passed the drawing-gift and into the backroom. Oh, boy, she thought, what would the lie be this time? The grey haired woman waited until he was sitting on the bed before assessing him with her eyes again … there didn't seem to be anything wrong on the surface. But that never meant much in her profession, most illnesses and injuries were easy to hide and hard to see unless brought into the open.

"Midoriya … do you need to tell me anything? Are there any pains keeping you awake? You can tell me," she reached for her stethoscope as she asked, mostly out of habit since she was a retired doctor.

Midoriya shook his head, his green curls getting in his eyes, also a lovely green. "N-no, nothing's wrong."

His response was not one that was altogether encouraging, the former doctor acknowledged. She wished she knew how to get him to talk, just a few words and she'd spring into action. But, though she had suggested many remedies to his _situation_ , he insisted that it was all fine. For as long as he insisted, there was little she could do since he refused to help himself.

She put down the stethoscope and patted his knee – it was all she could reach – and sighed. "Very well. Get some sleep, I'll be back at lunchtime with something to eat … don't move from that bed unless it's an emergency or I'll keep you here overnight," she added as she turned away, waving the key to the bedroom menacingly before she locked him in.

 _Poor Midoriya,_ she thought to herself as she composed another tiny basket of sweeties for him, _where's **your** hero when you need him?_

* * *

Izuku chuckled to himself as he laid down, Chiyo-san locking him in overnight was funny. He sighed, the crisp sheets and lumpy pillows beckoning him to rest. He was out cold in seconds, surrounded by the comforting scents of an airy room, latex, cardboard boxes and impersonal cleanliness. It smelt safe.

Chiyo-san was always caring about him.

He had met Chiyo-san when he'd been out running, he'd pushed himself too far, and his entire body was wracked with overwork. He'd sat down on a bench close to her shop, nearly having a panic attack because his legs refused to carry him and he felt too weak to move, and then she was there.

She'd just stepped in like a superhero, water bottle in hand and a stern lecture on her lips. She had seen him running past her shop day after day and grew concerned, then when he finally dropped like she'd predicted she was there with a helping hand.

Izuku had been very grateful, he'd offered his help in her shop to repay her and their little friendship had started.

Soon enough, they were like family, Chiyo-san consistently dotted on him like the aunt he never had though he hardly deserved her, and he, in turn, helped her whenever he could. Izuku tried to run as many errands for her as possible to make her shop run smoother, nothing was too big or small for him, though he could hardly measure up to how generous she was. Without asking she had patched him up, replaced his destroyed art equipment and had given him a job in her shop so he didn't feel so useless in his relationship.

It was like she was also a mind reader.

* * *

Hours later, Chiyo-san woke Izuku up, a mug of tea and a sandwich in her hands and a smile on her round face, "Do you feel better, Midoriya?"

Izuku sat up with a large yawn, stretching until all his joints had popped and his muscles shook off their sleepy ache. He smiled at the short woman and accepted the tea with a bright: "Yes, thank you."

He felt her eyes on him as he sipped his tea, wow it was honey and lemon tea! His favourite. He gave her a curious look before shyly asking "What time is it?"

"It's two in the afternoon, dearie." She jumped up to sit on the end of her bed, offering the sandwich once he'd taken several gulps of the tea. He blushed when he spotted the All Might mug she had chosen for him- she never failed to get him the good merchandise, sometimes even before it was in stock! Though, she never failed to gently tease him for his obsession too …

Her teases never felt malicious, they were like gentle pokes and conversation starters.

He ate in silence as Chiyo-san chatted about how quiet it had been today, how she was thinking of closing the shop early since no one appeared to be out or interested in her stock today. He nodded along, thinking that now Kacchan was out for the weekend training program he'd have to put up with being idle for a few days. He wasn't supposed to go to the All Might signing, after all, he _had_ promised …

Chiyo-san called his name, and he jumped, almost spilling his tea again "Ah! I'm s-sorry C-Chiyo-s-san!" he stuttered, heart racing until he remembered that this was his friend, a sweet little woman who'd never done more than raise her voice at him. Her expression was worried, and she held up her car keys with a slight smile, "I said, since we're done for today I can drop you off in town before I go see my family."

Izuku's eyes widened at the reminder of their plans – Chiyo-san would be off to see her family for the weekend and, because he'd been excited about it for weeks, Izuku had told her about the signing that was happening in town and she had insisted on giving him a lift in her car. She said he would need his energy to say everything he needed to say to the author, embarrassingly he had often admitted his love of the series to her.

Hands up, he tried to correct her, to protest that he couldn't possibly go. She shook her head and pulled at his hand "Midoriya, come now, it's not that big a burden for me to have company for a part of my drive, you're actually doing me such a big favour."

His heart fell into his stomach; how could he say no to that?

The tiny woman bustled about him as he internally panicked, she chuckled and cleaned up his plate, "Go get what you need, and I'll meet you in ten minutes."

* * *

Just like that. Izuku's voice failed, he was in Chiyo-san's car within the time frame, keys, and wallet in hand, and torn between delirious happiness and mountainous dread for breaking Bakugou's rule. He was going to the All Might signing, he was going to the All Might signing … a smile tugged at his lips: _He was going to the All Might signing!_

He turned to his friend and hesitantly asked, "What do you think the author will be like? Will he want to listen to me? Will he be cool like All Might is? I bet he will be."

Chiyo-san beamed at him and his new enthusiasm "Oh … I think you'll be surprised."

* * *

 **Randomly updated, also on Ao3!**

* * *

 **Leave a comment if this struck home or if you have questions.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**The creator of the "Number One Hero: All Might" comic franchise is struggling, almost dying, of stomach loss from a dreadful accident, and is slowly giving up on his series ...**_

 _ **Izuku is a huge fan of the All Might franchise and is an aspiring artist with a natural talent for bringing characters to life. Although his near-constantly angry boyfriend doesn't appreciate the talent and is determined to snuff it out to teach him his place, Izuku can't help but pick up a pencil when he thinks of the joy and strength that All Might gave to him in his dark hours, inspired to do the same.**_

 _ **Through his art, Izuku's future may yet be bright.**_

* * *

 **Also on Ao3 for those who prefer it there.**

* * *

Izuku let himself back home at an early hour of the morning, bag clutched against his chest and a soft smile on his face. His home was empty and quiet and cold for the most part, but he shuffled along to his private spot undaunted – the small utility surface that served as his desk against the laundry machines – only pausing long enough to turn on the thermostat and pick up his slippers.

Stepping up to his little space, he pulled out of the battered old bag he'd owned since art collage a glossy pre-signed book and sighed to himself, the gentle smile melancholy and yet pleased.

* * *

 _"Please form a line to receive your books, join either line, A or B!"_

 _The hall was full of people and noise and bright signs with more dazzling smiles. He was barely past the entrance when he found the information he was looking for, in the form of a loud man with a megaphone directing visitors left and right. The announcer brought Izuku's steps to a halt. Two lines? He mumbled something to himself, wondering how efficient the author of All Might must have been to sign two books at once or more- and a friendly convention person paused and explained._

 _"Oh, the Author isn't here. But there're pre-signed books for a good price instead. You just missed the apology speech the CEO of UA Manga opened the stall too. I thought it was very touching."_

 _Stuttering but desperate to know, Izuku forced out a timid question: Why?_

 _The con-goer, a cheerful looking girl with brown hair and brown eyes, shrugged and offered him a leaflet for another stall she was helping with- selling All Might related merchandise. "Ah, well Todoroki-san explained that the author was too busy working on the grand finale of the series, wanted to give us an extra special surprise and that he wasn't going to be showing his face to the public until it was ready."_

 _Izuku exhaled with a note of awe, "That's dedication."_

 _The girl grinned "I know, right? So admirable- oh, you'd better take your place in the line, or you'll never get a book," she winked "Take the left lane, Iida-Kun is helping that side, so it's bound to be working full throttle," she giggled to herself._

 _Izuku took her advice and, as promised, was in possession of his very own 'Delux Behind the pages of All Might Guide' in under an hour._

* * *

He hadn't stayed much longer. After the book, he'd near enough spent all the money he had brought with him. All he'd saved up for himself. However, he lingered just long enough to admire many exciting costumes of characters both known and unfamiliar. Many costumes were types of Heroes, and occasionally a popular villain walked past, Izuku recalling how and why they were such great characters from memory and a vast knowledge of comics and manga.

In the present, he opened the first page and giggled slightly, taken with the charm all over again that the author had signed the book as All Might himself. It took up a double page and overlapped the index very slightly, but the authenticity made Izuku honestly believe that All Might was real, that the Hero had been the one giving this book undivided attention for a signature.

Such an interesting strategy. It made a shiver of warmth bubble in his chest and made the book instantly one of his new treasures.

Izuku sat down and began to leaf through the pages, drinking in the details, the draft copies, the hints and advice for drawing All Might and other characters in his various Sagas. There was even a small passage from the Author at the end, the one piece that broke the illusion that the book was written by the characters themselves:

 _From the very start, All Might was made to inspire. He was an ideal, but not perfect, as any loyal fan will know there are many challenges that he must learn to handle. Often to a hilarious but fitting end. For myself, he was an Avatar and a friend. All Might was a way to express myself, and to improve myself. Who I wanted to be and who I used to be. He, as my Avatar, was my way of reaching many people in the hopes of bringing smiles as wide as his. As my friend, he was the reason I kept pushing myself to go beyond what I thought I could handle. All Might is my gift to the world and my personal treasure for all the adventures it has taken me on and all the people it has brought into my life._

 _To all his fans: Thank you, because of you He is here._

The passage made Izuku pause for thought. It sounded so … final. The break in illusion, the past tense, the honesty and seriousness of the text. He was aware that this was going to be a closing series, but from the way the words were structured it sounded like the Author had already stopped. But … it couldn't be abandoned yet, right? There was another comic book left, at the very least, to tie up the ending.

Fiddling with the corner of the page, the young man sighed, acknowledging that his observations were useless if the author had already decided. Still, he prayed that the creator would find new inspiration soon. Selfishly, he worried that if All Might's manga series stopped then he'd run out of courage and bravery. Whose words would comfort him late at night, or when he was forced to wear white? He would disappear into All Might's world and forget his troubles, as petty as they were, and now …

He reminded himself that he could re-read old series. However, he would miss the anticipation and awe at new art and victories. Things would change. His hand brushed over the ever-smiling hero with reverence not unlike grief.

Izuku resumed his reading and the note from the author passed under his eyes again. _Admirable_ , the young man thought. To create a character that you wanted to be, he wondered if he saw the author if it would be revealing? Perhaps he was the opposite and admired only the positive traits? Or maybe it would tell of vanity or false grandeur about the man, or a valued representation. Any way, it must have been such a brave experience to put a version of yourself out for the public to see.

Empathetically, he reasoned that it must have been as daunting as when he'd first uploaded his online comics. He'd fretted for an hour and panicked at every single comment or approval rating as if expecting something to go wrong. Somehow, it felt like he was putting something personal out into the public domain, a part of himself when it was just black lines on white paper.

Or perhaps instead of being unnerving it was an adventure to the author? If All Might represented the artist himself, then he must have gone through all those fights and emotions with him, and every journey expanded the great man even more. Had working through All Might changed him? Izuku longed to ask.

Curiously, Izuku wondered if any of his own characters reflected himself? Then promptly laughed it off, of course not. Heroes were brave and strong, valiant and bold, and he was none of the above.

Chuckling at his own strain of vanity, he stretched his stiff limbs and stood up from the hidden desk to get some sleep. His legs were asleep, and his body had begun to lightly shiver from lack of movement. He closed the book and shuffled to bed, vowing to do his household chores when he woke up after a nice long rest. He was so tired.

He tucked himself in on his half of the bed, back pressed against the wall and relaxed immediately. There was a stillness he rarely experienced before sleep, the empty apartment with creaky pipes, dancing shadows and an icy cold bed was indefinitely … safer … somehow.

Izuku smiled a tiny smile and passed out.

* * *

The table mats were just being neatly laid ready for the piping hot food when the door banged open. Izuku inhaled so fast he choked. He coughed several times, Bakugou's footsteps thunderously loud despite the gasps literally resonating in his skull, and Izuku nearly dropped their chopsticks.

When Bakugou came around the corner, scowling like he'd been given an extra shift, he threw his duffle bag further down the hall as a reminder to get it washed and promptly sprawled face down on the sofa.

He didn't move for several minutes.

Hesitant, Izuku was torn between inching towards the stove for Bakugou's comfort foods or approaching to try and help him.

Evidently, as his hand shakily lowered, helping won out. With a determinedly gentle touch to the shoulder, he asked: "A-are you o-okay, K-Kacchan?"

"Shut up Deku …" came the muffled reply, but the hand wasn't jerked off immediately, so Izuku tried his luck again and crouched to hear him better.

"N-need anything?"

The blond raised his head slightly and eventfully growled: "Drink."

Izuku nodded to himself and went to get the beer in question. He offered it with a small smile, his poor boyfriend must have been so tired to not even complain about how bad the weekend must have been. Maybe he should say something to get his mind off it- oh, no. He'd been told to be quiet earlier, so …

Popping the can, he placed it on the table near Bakugou's head and left him to brood. He briefly detoured to put Bakugou's clothes into the washing machine, then went back to preparing their evening meal. When he came back, the can was empty and rolling under their coffee table, Bakugou now on his back and looking peeved with everything around him as normal.

Izuku cleared his throat by the kitchen doorway, "Food is ready … w-when you want it," he added with a quick squeak when those mad eyes snapped to his. Izuku cringed under those angry eyes and slunk back behind the doorframe to the kitchen and curled up in a chair with a shaky sigh …

 _Kacchan's being_ _so quiet,_ he fretted. His concerns got higher when their dinner was also eaten in near silence, how stressed and wound up was his boyfriend if he couldn't even speak? He needed to relax … and there were only two ways that Bakugou could detox that pent-up energy. One was a workout, and since gyms weren't convenient around here there was only the _other_ option … pressing his legs together uncomfortably his thoughts racked up from concern to panic to a reluctant acceptance.

After eating, when he moved to wash the dishes Izuku's dread was realised. Bakugou quickly stopped him, took his wrist and pressed him against the wall, hot mouth on Izuku's before he could so much as 'eep'.

Eyes closed tightly as his mouth was roughly plundered and his wrist gripped hard enough to bruise, Izuku tried not to shake. Those rough, heated hands pulled him about like a puppet without strings, his breathing hitched when he was led to the bedroom by his captured wrist. Izuku's body hadn't reacted, he recalled the hard flesh against his hip from a few seconds ago with clarity and knew that by the time he'd relaxed for any kind of similar reactions to take place they'd be finished. He winced at the click of the door and kept his head down to try and avoid another bruising kiss. The blond gripped his shoulders and muttered sharply: "Don't you fucking dare cry!" before pushing Izuku closer to the bed.

Izuku trembled where he stood, the sound of boots being removed and the whoosh of his boyfriend's heavy police jacket hitting the floor came behind him from his immobilised spot. _Kacchan needs this,_ he thought, eyes closing again and his bottom lip vanishing between his teeth to silence his whimper when those hands returned. _Kacchan needs this,_ chanting it as a mantra and withdrawing as deep as he could into himself, hoping it would be over soon …

 _Kacchan needs this,_ he thought when his belt was forcefully undone. A tear escaped that he didn't have the courage to wipe away for fear of drawing attention to it.

 _Kacchan needs this,_ he was tipped onto the bed, and he obeyed the conditioning brought by many repeats of nights like this to remain where he was when the tinkling of a second belt filled the room. The young artist buried his head into the pillow and gripped the comforter, hard.

Sweat lined his body already, overheating with his racing heart. The bed dipped with Bakugou's knee on the mattress when the washing machine down the hall began a repetitive shriek that announced the end of the wash cycle. Both paused in their ritualistic positions to consider the noise.

Huffing an irritated sigh, Bakugou stomped out of the room to shut it up.

Izuku took a moment to breathe, then to whimper into the pillow under him. _Kacchan needs this … Kacchan needs this._ He couldn't even bring up an All Might phrase to ease the panic he was battling. It didn't happen too often, no, sex wasn't something that was common at all. But that made the anticipation for it all the worse. _Don't make a fuss for him, he's stressed and tired, and he needs this. I … I can do this._

His knuckles were white, but the rest of him relaxed submissively. Nothing was wrong. There was nothing to fear. The bedroom door slammed. Obediently, like the times before, he removes his shirt and waits, head bowed with unenthusiastic acceptance for whatever was to be done to him.

"Oi, Deku."

"Hmm?" he turned his head over his shoulder curiously, their bedroom wasn't a place for talking … typically.

But curiosity was doused in icy cold terror when he saw his sighed All Might book hanging in his boyfriend's furious grip. Izuku sat bolt upright, all pretence of calm gone, "Kacchan …"

Bakugou was fuming. He wasn't dumb, he'd seen the advertisements for the All Might signing and when he saw the signed book he knew that Izuku had gone to the event against orders, lied about it, and lied about dropping his useless habits. Izuku saw it all in his eyes as he loomed over him.

"You worthless piece of shit!" Bakugou yelled as he cornered the shaking young man against the wall.

Izuku cringed, arms raised to protect himself, "I'm sorry!" escaping before he even realised he was talking.

"You fucking went! After I told you not to- you-!" so angry he couldn't finish a sentence. Bakugou's hand yanked on Izuku's hair to force the shorter man to look him in the eye and growled "While I was at the shitty meeting you were off being a shitty nerd, fucking waste of space! I told you no! What was so fucking hard to understand?"

Thrown to the floor, Izuku wept "I'm sorry! I'm sorry Kacchan." He rubbed at his scalp and kept his head low when a foot stomped not an inch from his face. "I-I didn't mean to- I'm sorry- It-it was just-" He looked up to implore that he hadn't intended to break the rules, however, froze when he saw the position his boyfriend held his precious book in. He whimpered in the overheated room, under the burning gaze and over the click of a lighter, "P-please n-no …"

He clutched at his boyfriend's arm and begged "Don't! I'll make it up to you, I-I swear I-"

 ***Click***

* * *

 **Randomly updated, also on Ao3!**

* * *

 **Leave a comment if this struck home or if you have questions.**


End file.
